


Up From The Craters To The Stars

by ladderax (allnuthatchforest)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, First Kiss, M/M, Movie Creation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 13:01:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/598058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest/pseuds/ladderax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Arthur and Eames, the filming of the movie "Cannibal Cat-Elves from the Lesser Magellanic Clouds" in Cobb's backyard leads to makeup fights, accidental dates, and drinking games with coffee creamer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up From The Craters To The Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sneaqui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneaqui/gifts).



> Title from "Space Remains" by Bear in Heaven.
> 
> This was supposed to be a prize for Caitlin for winning the Inceptiversary scavenger hunt challenge. It's a little (a lot) late, but here it is at last! She wanted cosmetologist!Eames and aquanet blowtorches; I didn't manage the latter, but maybe someday. All the thanks to her for coming up with such an awesome prompt.

"Nice Caboodles," Arthur says, glancing at the purple box Eames has just set down onf Cobb's mother's dressing table. 

"Arthur, did you just--" Ariadne has half a baby carrot stick in her mouth and she can't keep little flecks of orange from flying out. "Did you just compliment him on his butt?" 

"No," Arthur replies, and he wishes he had some of Eames's pancake makeup on his cheeks right now in case he's blushing. "Eames's makeup box. It's a Caboodles." 

"And how do we happen to know that, Arthur?" Arthur didn't even think Yusuf had been paying attention; his nose is buried in a big book called The Psychotronic Video Guide to Film, which has a grinning green skull and a nubile maiden in some sort of distress on the cover. Arthur doesn't even want to know what kinds of ideas that book is giving him. The puppets for "Cannibal Cat-Elves from the Lesser Magellanic Cloud" have already given him three nightmares that he'll admit to. 

"My sister had one," says Arthur. "She took it everywhere. I think it was the same color as Eames's."

"Maybe she gave it to me after one of our romantic liaisons," Eames says over his shoulder. He's opening the Caboodles now, and Arthur can see tubes of color he didn't even think makeup came in, teal and bile green and highlighter yellow and Cheeto orange. "Interpreted 'hope chest' a bit creatively. Arthur, stop being nosy, will you?"

Arthur didn't notice that he had edged over to stand almost right behind Eames. This kind of thing was happening more and more lately. There was probably a movie in Yusuf's book with a similar premise; The Amazing Magnetic Boy Scout or something like that, which probably ended in a cleaver chase and lots of squealing theremins. 

"I'm not being nosy. I'm just trying to see what the hell you're going to be putting on my face." 

"Don't worry, I won't detract from your natural beauty." Eames holds up a latex thing that looks like a wobbly, lumpy masquerade mask and drops it over his own eyes.

"You look like radioactive oatmeal," Yusuf laughs. Suddenly a noise quiets them all; someone's coming up the stairs. Ariadne sits primly on the edge of the bed, chewing furiously, and Arthur leans against a wall and crosses his arm. Yusuf closes his book and looks up. Only Eames doesn't cease his flurry of preparations. 

"What the hell are you guys doing here?" Cobb says, pushing the door open. 

"You gave me a key," Arthur reaches in his pocket and dangles the key from his index finger. "And you were late. We don't have that much time to film today since Yusuf has violin at seven. Remember?" 

Eames chuckles a bit under his breath, and Arthur shoots him a dark sideways glare. 

"Fine," Cobb sighs. "Let's get moving then. Eames, is the makeup ready? Yusuf, do you have the puppets? Where are the puppets?"

"I do so love it when people try to compensate for their own mistakes by ordering everyone else around all pissily," Eames mutters.

Cobb glowers. 

"Guys." Arthur warns. "Come on. This isn't helping."

"Alright then." Eames waves his small airbrush tool as menacingly as it's possible to wave a small airbrush tool. "Who's first for makeup?" 

*

Arthur is playing one of the Cannibal Cat-Elves from the Lesser Magellanic Clouds. At first he was disappointed that he didn't get to play Captain Van Ronk, the 19th century Napoleonic War sailor whose ship has been tossed into outer space by a whirlpool, but after Mal promised him she'd write a fight scene for him he was more willing to don the pointy teeth and pointy latex ears and all manner of other pointy things. 

Arthur volunteers to go first for makeup. He sits in the chair and closes his eyes halfway, but as Eames works Arthur opens his eyes more and more, curious to see his transformation. First Eames glues the eyepiece and ears on with spirit gum. Then he sponges a greenish-white foundation onto the browpiece and the rest of Arthur's face. Already Arthur looks like a completely different person, perhaps a Neanderthal who got caught in a chalk storm. He frowns. 

"Stop that," Eames admonishes. "It isn't dry yet." 

Eames lays a stencil over Arthur's cheeks, and then the Menacing Airbrush Tool comes out. Arthur watches as a pattern of asymmetrical black spots forms, widening the farther they get from his mouth. The paint going on is a cool tickle. It feels pretty good. 

Then Eames presses whiskers onto his cheeks. Arthur is suddenly very aware of feeling Eames's fingers right before Eames shouts, "Who the fuck put on Daft Punk? I can't put whiskers on people while Daft Punk is playing." 

"Hey," Arthur says. "No sudden movements if you're even thinking about putting glue anywhere near my face." 

"Relax, it’s temporary," Eames says with a grin. "Never had it take longer than a year to come off."

When Eames is finished, Arthur barely recognizes himself in the mirror. He’s wearing fangs and his eyes are lined with mottled green wings that make him look sharp, dangerous, and thoroughly alien. 

“I like that face you’re making,” Eames says, and Arthur whirls around, realizing that Eames has been watching him looking at himself in the mirror the whole time. “Keep it like that for a second.” 

Eames takes a Polaroid camera out of his bag. “No, no pictures,” Arthur mumbles, but Eames shushes him. 

When the picture’s taken, Eames props it up inside the open lid of the Caboodles to dry.

“There,” he says proudly. “My very own patron saint of weirdo makeup.” 

Arthur isn’t entirely sure how to feel about that, but he says thanks. 

 

*

Arthur is tying Yusuf's hands behind his back while Eames lies bleeding under a tree. 

Well, actually: Kolzor, the cannibal cat boy, is tying Captain Van Ronk's hands behind his back, while T'x'lakonor Smith groans, half-closed eyes drifting groggily about the dark golden autumn woods. But Arthur has never really been one for method acting. 

The story of "Cannibal Cat-Elves" began with Captain Van Ronk's journey through space in his Napoleonic-era warship going as uneventfully as he could hope (said space journey was to be indicated by some truly dreadful CGI of a ship sailing against an backdrop of stars that looked suspiciously like a 90s screensaver). That is, until T’x’lakonor Smith (a disreputable privateer of 1/8th Rigelian, 1/4th Aldebaran, 1/4th Fomalhautian and a bit less than half human descent) zipped onto his deck on the run from space police trying to cart him back to space prison. 

It was smooth sailing for awhile, rigging sails and throwing lemons at each other, until the Casabianca crash-landed on the planet of the cannibal cat people. Smith had made the mistake of stepping on one of the silver leaves strewn ubiquitously across the floor of the forest-world, and the energy that coursed through his body had a hallucinogenic-soporific-narcotic effect that caused him to slump to the ground faster than a tazer to the nuts. 

The good captain cleared a path to the nearest tree with the laser thingy given to him by Smith as a "thanks for keeping me out of jail" gift and dragged his companion under it. Then he went off to look for help, or for trouble; naturally, the latter found him first. 

Enter twins Kolzor and Mezora: refugees from a planet-wide civil war, the aim of which was to exterminate the entire cat-cannibal species. These two wanted to live to eat humanoid flesh another day, and the day they found one humanoid lying conked out under a tree and another wandering haplessly in the woods was a lucky one indeed. 

In the present scene, Captain Van Ronk has already tried every method of communication he could think of, verbal and non-verbal, pointing and waving his hands and crying "no eat, no eat" when the siblings approach him with teeth bared and eyes hungry as hell is for sinners. Kolzor crouches and circles and sinks his teeth into Smith's tender flesh.

Smith's eyes fly open; he looks at his excited patron and dryly says “oh, hello".

Kolzor, by way of communication, keeps gnawing at Smith’s arm, and when Smith realizes what’s going on he lets loose a wobbly scream that scares the squirrels from a few beech trees. 

This is the point where Cobb yells "CUT" and Arthur runs for Eames's Caboodles which has been lying purple-ly amongst the Queen Anne's Lace.

Eames paints some adhesive on his arm, sticks a wound made of latex on it, and presses hard for a few seconds to let it dry. 

“Where did you get that?” Arthur asks. “It’s really real-looking.” 

“I made it myself,” Eames says casually. 

Arthur nods, trying to look impressed but not too impressed. 

After the wound is juicy with fake blood, Arthur takes a swig of fake blood himself and resumes his position, and Cobb counts down until the cameras are rolling again. The splicing is probably going to look ridiculous, but Cobb did tell them that was going to be part of the charm of this film--the more anachronistic technologies and editing gaffes the better. “As we’re working on this, I want you guys to be visualizing the IMDB page”, Cobb said. 

Arthur, with a beard of blood, pretends he’s rolling the manmeat around in his mouth like a sip of wine with a progressively disgusted look on his face. According to the script, Smith’s Rigelian ancestry is supposed to make his flesh taste repulsive to cat-cannibals. At last Kolzor can’t take it anymore and he spits out a chunk of bloody Smith-flesh on the ground. 

“I’m sorry my taste offends you,” Smith/Eames groans. “I hope that doesn’t bode poorly for our future relationship.” 

Arthur/Kolzor grunts. That had been an ad lib on Eames’s part. 

Mezora removes her teeth from Captain Van Ronk, wary of this man who might taste just as bad as his compatriot, and then, as Kolzor comes over to tie Van Ronk’s hands behind his back, something catches her attention. Her ears perk up. 

They literally perk up; attached to her sleeves are lines of fishing wire that connects to her ears, and when she yanks them the tips of her ears move something like a cat’s ears do. The moving ears were one concession Arthur refused to make for his art, for the sake of what little dignity he had left. 

“What do you hear?” Captain Van Ronk asks.

Mezora looks at him, eyes fear-widened, and motions them all to follow her in the opposite direction of the sound she’d heard. They proceed after her as quietly as they can manage, all careful not to step on any silver leaves.

As they walk, Eames keeps looking at him with this weird hungry look in his eye. Arthur isn’t sure why; he doesn’t remember it being in the script. Before he knows it Eames’s shoulder is brushing his.

“What the hell,” Arthur says under his breath. “I’m supposed to be the cannibal, not you.”

“Cut, cut,” Cobb says testily. “Arthur. We’re filming.”

“He keeps looking at me,” Arthur replies with a glare at Eames. “Did you tell him to do that? I don’t know what to do with this.”

Eames shrugs. “Figured I’d add a little interspecies homoerotic sexual tension.” He reaches out and touches one of Arthur’s whiskers lightly as if adjusting it. “Might make the difference between oblivion and a cult classic.”

“Wait a second.” Arthur squares his shoulders and stiffens, edging away from Eames. “You’re trying to add gay romantic subtext just so people will like the movie?”

“Why not?” Eames says with a crooked smile. “People might even write stories about us on the internet.”

Arthur glares at him. “That’s so completely wrong. Being queer isn’t a fucking trend, asshole.” 

Eames lowers his eyebrows. “For heaven’s sake, I know that. But you use what’s in your toolbox.” 

Arthur glares at him. What’s Eames going to try to do next, kiss him? If something like that’s going to happen, Arthur at least needs time to prepare for that. It’s not that kissing Eames would be weird or repulsive; it would just be--an event. Because Arthur is sure that Eames would kiss the way he does everything else, the way he does makeup and talks and even acts in a crappy movie like this; he’d do it brilliantly and disarmingly, and that’s just not the kind of thing Arthur wants to be caught by unawares while being filmed on Cobb’s crappy camcorder.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” Arthur says, using that older-sibing tone of voice that means there’s no room for any further discussion. “Can we just start filming again?” He taps his foot.

Eames crosses his arms and rolls his eyes. “Can we develop a mortal hatred instead, then? Can we duel to the death?”

“No and no,” Cobb says. “Just stick to the goddamn script.” 

*

After they wrap up, Arthur feels sort of bad for putting the kibosh on Eames’s idea.

“I’m thinking I’m gonna go to the diner for a bit,” Arthur says. “Anyone want to come along?”

Yusuf shakes his head immediately. Ariadne says she has a study date at the library, and Cobb and Mal say they’re just going to stay in and watch the footage they’ve got so far, which causes Yusuf to make air quotes and wiggle his eyebrows. “Eames?” Arthur asks.

Eames’s mouth turns down, and he cocks his head to one side. “I’ve got to run some errands.”

Arthur tries not to look let down. “Fine. I’ve got an organic chemistry test coming up, so I probably should study anyway. See you later.” 

He walks out the door with a wave before anyone can say anything in response.

*

Arthur scowls at his textbook and takes a bite out of his grilled cheese sandwich. Damn. It’s greasy. He presses a napkin down onto the bread and makes a face when the napkin comes up showing a shiny, translucent Rorschach design. He doesn’t have two quarters for the jukebox and the kids behind him are really loud, a girl talking to her friend about how her boyfriend always wants to listen to his own band when they’re making out.

And, as if the God of Diners is totally determined to stick it to Arthur today, at that moment Eames walks in, tailed by two kids Arthur vaguely recognizes: a girl with a hipster mullet and a boy in a shredded denim jacket whose long black hair is even greasier than Arthur’s sandwich. They look like the type who don’t even need to talk to make friends, who just sit there and act unimpressed with everything while people flock to try to be deemed worthy of their attention. 

They get seated across the aisle and a few tables down, and Eames is facing Arthur, but he doesn’t seem to see him. Arthur ducks his head and pretends he’s just been struck with a bad case of nearsightedness. 

Arthur can’t hear anything they’re saying, so he pokes his head up, tortoiselike, to look at them. He tries to read their lips but all Eames is doing right now is laughing and looking at the menu. 

Damn Hipster Mullet and Grilled Cheese Hair for making Eames laugh. 

Orgo is kind of hard to focus on right now, so Arthur looks left and right, then pulls his copy of From Hell out of his satchel. He reads for a few minutes but absorbs nothing; all the words and images bead awkwardly on the surface of his mind like rain on a waterproofed deck. 

Also, he’s really thirsty. It’s hard to drink in that position, so he pulls his Coke onto his lap and slurps at it, feeling pretty fucking silly.

“Arthur?” 

Arthur spits and jerks his head up. He turns around slowly, full of dread, and there’s Eames, a rice pudding in one hand and a chocolate pudding in the other and a spoon between his teeth.

“I’m glad you found friends who were capable of convincing you to come to the diner,” Arthur says as nonchalantly as he can manage, pretending he isn’t 1) completely pissed off and 2) hasn’t just been hiding like a five year old and drinking Coke from his lap. “I was really worried you wouldn’t get to double-fist any pudding today.” 

Eames grins around the spoon. “Can I shit down?” he slurs.

“I don’t think the waiter will want to clean that up,” says Arthur. Eames rolls his eyes and sits in the booth across from him.

“I was actually on my way here when I ran into Kevin and Marcy,” Eames says apologetically, scooping up a heaping spoonful of the chocolate pudding. Arthur isn’t sure if it’s all BS or not, so he just shrugs.

“Really, Arthur.” Eames gives him his best puppy dog eyes, and he so rarely makes eye contact with anyone that it either feels like a very special moment or the biggest load of crap that ever crapped. “I’m not even that close with them anymore.” 

“Sorry to hear that,” Arthur says.

Eames blinks and raises his eyebrows in resignation. “Kev was my best mate when I moved her, but since I stopped caring so much about the local music scene it seems we’ve got nothing to talk about anymore. Beginning to think that the idea that friendship is based on common interests is a bit of bunk, don’t you?” 

Arthur gives him a noncommittal one-sided smile. “Maybe, sometimes.” 

“How silly is it, really. To think that the sun shines out someone’s bum just ‘cause they happen to like David Lynch and the No New York sampler too. How often are we warned about relationships based on superficial similarities? And yet the spell is irresistible. You like it? I like it! Let me jump into your arms and travel in your suitcase until I decompose.” 

“So then...people shouldn’t ever talk to each other?” Arthur knows he looks unimpressed. “They just sit there staring at each other and trying to communicate with their eyes?”

Eames chews on the end of his spoon for a second, then leans forward on his elbows. “I’ve got an idea, Arthur. Let’s play a drinking game.” 

Arthur looks around doubtfully. “I’ve got homework...”

“Not that kind of drinking game.” Eames grins and picks up a container of half-and-half. “We’ll talk. And every time one of us mentions some thing--” his nose wrinkles in disgust at the word-- “we like, some movie or album or book, we have to drink.” 

Arthur sighs and flips the pages of his book. “Maybe talking about ideas and experiences is fine for you, Eames. You’ve been everywhere, you’ve got stories. I don’t. Liking _things_ might be snobbish, but they can also equalize us, y’know? Not everybody can go to Macchu Picchu, but most people can go to the library and find a comic book.” 

“But if everyone already knew what they were supposed to like, no one would be so fucking up their own arses for liking the right shit.” 

“Maybe,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth defiantly, “people just need to learn to be more receptive. Like, Phil Collins isn’t cool, but some of the shit he did with sound was really novel. Good stuff is everywhere.”

“Arthur,” Eames says gaily, and hands him a half-and-half. “Drink.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, peels the paper lid back, and chugs. “Joke’s on you. I actually like the taste of half-and-half. Oh, wait, do I have to drink again for saying I like something else?”

“You should have to drink a can of cat piss for saying you like Phil Collins.” 

Arthur drops a half-and-half in front of Eames.

“What?” Eames says, perplexed. 

“Evaluations and judgments of _things_ also count. Or they should.”

Eames shakes his head and drinks.

“So what do we talk about? I dropped my little sister off at soccer practice yesterday, want to talk about that?” Arthur says.

“Sure,” Eames says, head high, a drop of creamer running down his chin. Arthur is tempted to reach over and wipe it off, but he just drums his fingers on the table. “Tell me your most boring story.”

“Now you’re making fun of me.”

“Not at all. My housemate? Built houses in Nicaragua, rode the Trans-Siberian Railroad, ate a live scorpion once. Most brutally boring tosser I’ve ever met. All he talks about is juicing. Not steroids. Juicing as in putting mangos into a machine and making them liquid. It’s just _orange water_ , Arthur. Orange water. And maybe--maybe if we only were unafraid to discuss our interactions openly, and to see relationships as a game with rules aimed at maximizing entertainment for everyone--to challenge each other to talk about unexpected things, things people don’t usually talk about, and just--just to be less _mind-crushingly boring--_ ”

Arthur is silent for a moment. “You’re really terrified of being bored, aren’t you?” he says mildly.

Eames gives him a smug smile. “I’m terrified of other people being boring.” 

“If I didn’t know you well enough, I’d say that makes you a major asshole.” Arthur slurps through his straw purposely to annoy Eames. He realizes then that Eames is looking at him. Not in the way that Eames has been looking at him throughout their conversation, but in a new way. As if Eames is looking for something in his face. Waiting for something. “What?”

“You don’t bore me,” Eames says simply. 

Arthur sighs. “Of course I do. Everyone’s boring sometimes. Luckily I don’t care that much about entertaining you or anyone else.” 

“That’s exactly it,” says Eames. “When you don’t have anything to say, you don’t say it. If you don’t like something, you don’t pretend to like it. You’re just who you are, without making a big deal about it.”

“Eames,” Arthur says, “did I hear right? Did you--did you just _compliment_ me?”

Eames shakes his head vigorously. “No, no. I just made another one of my usual incisive observations. Call off the dogs.” 

The waiter drops off Arthur’s check, and he takes a moment to lay down some cash and look over the totals. “Make sure you don’t make them pay for your puddings.” 

“Are you going right home after this?” Eames asks.

Arthur nods. “I was going to study for the orgo test and watch some shit on TV.” 

Eames smirks. “You think I might get a ride?” 

*

They don’t go straight to Eames’s house.

Somehow, Arthur doesn’t even know how, they end up parked at the Loch Raven reservoir. And somehow, they end up making out. Eames pulls Arthur into his lap in the passenger seat with one swift movement, and whispers “So let’s talk about that assumption that I’m not gay, hmmm?”  
Arthur doesn’t want to talk about that right now. He slides his hands under Eames’s T-shirt, and the feel of Eames’s smooth hot skin and firm muscle zaps the feeble “second base” joke right off of his tongue. 

Eames bites lightly at Arthur’s jaw and plays with the hair at the back of his neck, and Arthur wishes he could simultaneously suck on Eames’s lips and stare at them in wonder because he can’t believe he’s actually here, their hips rubbing together, their necks entwined, Eames’s hand creeping down Arthur’s back and teasing the waistband of his pants--

“Question,” Arthur asks, a little hoarse.

“If it begins with ‘can I,” the answer is probably a resounding yes,” Eames whispers, and Arthur can feel it everywhere.

“Have you ever made anyone listen to your band while making out?” 

Eames snorts. “I’ve never had a band.”

Arthur smiles, satisfied, and leans in to commit himself fully to the task at hand. 

*

Arthur checks the clock, runs a quick hand through his hair, and, looking at his bookshelf, grabs a few of his packaged X-Men figurines and puts them behind one of the rows of books. Then he thinks again and takes them back out. It feels sort of wrong, especially after Eames told Arthur he liked him because he didn't try to be cool. And also, who wouldn't be impressed by that limited edition Nightcrawler? Even if you didn't know anything about comics, it's a fucking work of art. 

He brushes off the mirror he's set on top of his desk with his feather duster. Arthur's mom likes to proudly tell her friends that Arthur is probably the only 18-year-old boy on earth who bought a feather duster with his own money, and he always winces when she says it. It makes him sound like some sort of neat freak, which he isn't; he just dislikes dust and likes feathers. 

Then the doorbell rings. Arthur squints into the mirror and lays the duster down, and for a moment he feels panicked, like a lobster in a trap--if lobsters even feel panic. He wonders what would happen if he just stood here and let Eames keep ringing. Knowing Eames he'd probably send a balloon up past the window with a note that said I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE, YOU WANKER, NOW LET ME IN SO I CAN PUT LIPSTICK ON YOU.

Arthur sighs and runs down the steps quickly, though only a step at a time. Usually he takes them in bounds of two or three, a habit left over from an excitable childhood. He can see Eames through the frosted glass, a blurry mosaic of tawny browns and peaches and greens. Eames rings again. 

"COOL IT, I'M COMING!" Arthur shouts.

Then he opens the door and Eames is standing there with his Caboodles. Arthur doesn't know why, but he feels like his courage has been rewound to some pre-reservoir state, and he's kind of afraid to even look Eames in the eye. 

He looks down at Eames's weird old man boat shoes and at the Pet Shop Boys and Yazoo stickers on his makeup case which Eames probably made himself because let's face it, do they even sell Pet Shop Boys and Yazoo stickers anymore? Eames follows him upstairs without a word or a question, but with a grin Arthur can feel at his back as if it emitted its own heat. 

Arthur leads Eames into his room and stands in front of his desk.

"Well," Arthur says, coughing slightly into his hand, "welcome to your new studio." 

Eames sets his makeup box down and opens it up. Arthur pulls over a stool and sits down on it. The fact that Eames is no longer looking at him emboldens Arthur, and he walks his stool closer to Eames until he can see the weave of his kelly green vintage polo shirt and the smell of his aftershave is overwhelming. 

He put his hands on Eames's waist and pulls himself up, and then they're standing face to face, and it feels so different than it did at the reservoir, it doesn't feel like it might be a mistake borne of too much coffee and Chris Cornell's voice on the radio and the forced proximity of Arthur's tiny Hyundai hatchback. They're in Arthur's space now, and it feels like they've been doing this for awhile, or at least for maybe two weeks. 

And then Eames is the one who stiffens and pulls back.

Arthur just looks quizzically at him for a moment, trying to say "What the fuck?" in the most unembarrassing way possible.

"I just--" Eames's ears are turning pink, and his voice actually cracks a bit before he irons out his facade. "Arthur, there's something I have to tell you." 

Arthur sits back down and crosses his legs. "Go on," he says, emulating his father's best high school principal voice.

"Today I found out that I got accepted into cosmetology school," Eames says, looking down at his crossed arms. "In New York." 

Arthur chews his lip and nods. "OK, great, I guess that's it then? I guess we're done? And I guess you don't want to _start anything new right now_ because it might get in the way of your meeting awesome new people who won't even speak to anyone who doesn't believe vinyl is superior?"

"It's not--I just figured--" Eames stammers.

And Arthur knows what's coming. Arthur's been here before. His junior year boyfriend had broken up with him right after he'd gotten into college in Oregon, citing the same crap reasons Eames is undoubtedly about to spout. Long distance never works, he'd said. I like you, Arthur, but it's better to break up now than to hurt you more after we've been together for longer and gotten more used to being together. Great. Just great.

Arthur doesn't even know what's come over him, but his face is burning and he needs to do something to blow off this hurt and humiliation. He could yell at Eames to get out or stomp away, but it would just be so, so satisfying to take that tube of aqua face cream and--

"Fuck off, you fucking concern troll! Just be honest and tell me you don't like me!" Arthur shouts, and he's squeezing the tube as hard as he can, watching the curlicues of gel squirt Eames in the face with an odd sense of detachment as if it's being done by someone else. 

"What the--" Eames wipes his face off, and looks at his shimmering turquoise hands. He looks like he's about to wipe his hands off on his pants, but then he lunges and presses his hands to Arthur's shirt. "Ha, see how you like it, " he mutters. 

"Suck my--" Arthur growls and reaches for the makeup box again, and this time Eames anticipates it. As soon as Arthur's fingers close around a tub of something, Eames grabs Arthur's wrist, and with his other hand he tries to pry Arthur's fingers off of the tub. Eames is strong, but Arthur gets a burst of energy, and besides, Eames's fingers are still a bit slippery. 

He wiggles his hand out of Eames's grip just long enough to realize that it's utterly ridiculous to keep this up. Eames reaches out to grab him again, and Arthur rather sheepishly says, "Stop, stop." 

Eames slowly backs off, but he keeps eyeing Arthur warily. "Are you going to cream me again?" he asks. 

Arthur shakes his head. "I probably shouldn't have done that."

Eames shrugs. "It's your carpet."

Arthur doesn't know what he's talking about, but then he looks down and sees that the jar has come open in his hand and splashed glittery talc powder everywhere, down Arthur's hands and the knees of his pants and his shoes and yes, his carpet. Arthur sighs deeply. "I'll replace your makeup." 

"You fucked up, Arthur." Eames rubs his hands.

"Yeah, I know," Arthur says guiltily. He flicks feebly at the glitter on his arm, as if that will solve anything.

"I'm not talking about the makeup," Eames says, his tone suddenly gentle. He steps closer to Arthur and lifts Arthur's chin with a finger. "Although I'm suddenly regretting not making my character more...aqua. What I was talking about, though, was that you assumed immediately that my telling you meant that I was trying to worm out of whatever thing this is that we have. I was worried when I told you because I was afraid you wouldn't want to keep making out with me at reservoirs."

Arthur shakes his head and starts to laugh. "I--I really wouldn't do that. I mean, long distance relationships--er, things--they kind of suck, but--"

"Have you ever been in one?" Eames asks. Arthur can't tell which warmth is from Eames's breath on his face and which is from the sudden constricting of the capillaries in his cheeks. "Who knows. We might get the one with the special prize code beneath the lid."

"It's always a good sign when your romantic interest compares your relationship to a drink with absolutely no health or hydration benefits," Arthur says dryly. "My mother's a dentist. I know about this stuff."

"I thought your mother was a middle school principal," Eames says, narrowing his eyes. Arthur grins and runs a finger down Eames's nose. 

"You know, I've, uh, got my own shower," he says, feeling as articulate as a dog trying to bark the alphabet. "We can afford to be at Cobb's a little late."

"Let's never go to Cobb's," Eames says against Arthur's lips, a gentle buzz. Arthur can't see much between the blood rushing to his head and Eames's face blocking his view, but he's aware that Eames is shrugging out of his jacket and letting it fall carelessly on the floor. "Let's never, ever go back."

“Let’s never go back,” Arthur repeats. 

And then they’re kissing, and it feels like they really won’t go back there, or anywhere else.

*

There stands Mal, holding a nerf blaster with five silver-painted cylinders of silver foam attached to it, wearing her high-necked black gown bought for five dollars at the Goodwill--apparently the female energy demons of Altair V have independently invented sequins. 

"The energy I have collected from these leaves will not suffice to sustain me," she says in a booming voice as she waves the weapon. "Give the creatures to me." 

"Who are you talking to?" asks Captain Van Ronk. "We're all creatures. Well, some of us are more creaturely than others," he says, glancing in Eames's direction.

"I have no time for your games, meat puppet," she says, pursing her shiny blue lips. Her face shimmers with iridescent blue paint, and icelike horns protrude from her forehead. Arthur knows he can't stand there admiring her makeup without risking breaking out of character, but he can't help himself. Eames has made her look like the swirling surface of a gaseous planet, like if you touch her your fingers will go right through her skin. "I speak to my loyal subjects, Kolzor and Mezora."

Eames and Yusuf gasp. "Is this true?" Eames asks. "Have you been serving her this whole time?"

Ariadne hangs her head, looking guilty. "My brother and I wished to avoid telling you of the threat, King of Earth," she says. "To think of her is to draw her near. We could not call her to mind.” 

Mal laughs maniacally. "And that has worked so well for you. Your minds are weak, cannibal cat-men! I have no further use for you." She points her gun at Arthur and begins to pull the trigger. Suddenly Eames reaches over, grabs Arthur by the collar, and and pulls him in for a deep kiss.

Mal lowers her weapon and sighs dramatically. "Cut, cut," Cobb says. "This is not in the script." 

"I was thinking maybe Eames was right about that romantic subplot," Arthur says. "It would give more depth to both Smith and...shit, did I actually forget my own character's name?" 

"If they were to kiss now, I'd have to rethink everything that comes afterward." Cobb mutters. "I'd have to ask Mal to meditate on the energy demon's most likely reactions, and she already spent so long thinking about her motivations--And that’s saying nothing about all the other characters--”

Cobb doesn’t even get a chance to finish. Everyone is laughing; Ariadne is covering her face with her hands, Yusuf is pounding his fist against his thigh, Eames is just chuckling, but his ears have turned bright red again. Arthur sort of wants to reach out and pet his ear, but that might be a little weird. 

“Dom,” Ariadne says, making a valiant effort to suppress her laughter, “like you said, the point of making this movie sort of was to pay tribute to great sci-fi B movies, and those movies did tend to be pretty...psychologically unconvincing...” 

“That’s fine. Don’t worry about changing the script, Cobb,” Eames tilts his head and smiles. “Arthur and I can explore this storyline in private.”

Yusuf groans. “Gross.” 

“He’s talking about, uh, fanfiction.” Arthur squeaks out.

“Yeah. Roleplaying. Things like that.” Eames’s smile widens into a grin.

“You’re making it worse, Eames,” Arthur rolls his eyes. “Let’s shoot the scene again. Positions, everyone.”

“Hey!” Cobb protests. “Who’s the fucking director here?” 

As they move back to the places where they stood at the beginning of the scene, Eames leans over so close Arthur can feel his lips against his ear. “Wonder if Kolzor and Smith will be able to make an interstellar, interspecies, long-distance relationship work. Cobb will just have to write us a sequel so we can find out, won’t he?” 

Arthur looks down at the silver leaves moving around his feet and smiles.


End file.
